"... Heroes I thought came to the village each year for several days to
choose a wife and go. Then, it rained for forty days and nights.
While heroes stayed_ it was dark all the time."
Then, a little voice came to me: Birds of a feather_ flock together.
For heroes it’s different_ they belong to a secret society.
They don’t really marry local girls? I questioned Tzimo who flew by :
“ A good hunter is he a hero?” Tzimo didn’t answer anything. He only
smiled. “ I am a person of the air, Bear-Boy. There is no room
in my sky for heroes. No cloud is big enough to contain wars
and soldiers.” Then he flew off again. As he swooped clear off my
head_ in a half-light turn, I heard him say: “ They are no heroes,
my friend. No land is BIG enough to contain them all. See how
small you are from up here _ a tiny grain of sand."
Tzimo drifted in the wind, Sunrise made its way in his direction.
It smells like rain, I thought. If the weather holds good, corn will
grow plentiful. After the heavy downpours_ even clay-heroes wash
away. The horizon in fire will turn into night. I’ll go home on the
plateau to smell the sage-brushes_ several days of rough travel.
Evenings along the river.”
